


I Love You, But I Am Disappointed. Again

by ExploretheEcccentricities



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure
Genre: Abusive Behavior, Angst, Controversial Stuff, Couple Disagreements, Depression, Don't worry no domestic abuse or anything, Gen, Hurt, I was gonna tag this hurt/comfort but there is no actual comfort, Just sticking to my regular fic verse, Neglect, Quirin-bashing, Varian's Mother's name is Alda in this fic, bad parenting vs good parenting, save this woman, sort of bad dad Quirin?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24233260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExploretheEcccentricities/pseuds/ExploretheEcccentricities
Summary: Varian isn’t the only one in the family who feels like he has disappointed someone he loves. He also is not the only one to be disappointed in turn.(Part of the Mothers-Centric fics I promised).
Relationships: Quirin & Varian (Disney), Quirin/Varian's Mother (Disney), Varian & Varian's Mother (Disney)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	I Love You, But I Am Disappointed. Again

**Author's Note:**

> So...guess who had to move residences because of a water sanitation issue in the middle of a pandemic? Guess who was also just released from the swathing hoard of work that piled up on their desk? Guess who also also just underwent an emotional breakdown to re-evaluate their purposes in life...You know what, I'll stop there.
> 
> Do not worry! The next installment for the "Or So They Thought" will be out soon (I know by the end of this month, for sure), it is almost finished! Here's a little something that's been sitting on my chest for a while. I know that in my fanfics, I tend to paint Quirin in this Uber-soft light, even though he isn't canonically so. This fic is...well, I wanted to think of things realistically (for Varian's situation) and make Varian's mom the sensible, responsible parent, because 1) it's relatable 2) emphasizes that while Quirin may not necessarily be abusive, he has unintentionally made some deeper parental errors before that provide context to why he is that way with Varian in the first season.
> 
> This is depressing. It hit home for me in ways it never should have.
> 
> Warning: a little bit of Quirin-bashing. By his own wife. Yeah, I'm mean. No, I don't technically have an abusive parent or partner. Yes, I relate too much to fictional characters that may or may not actually exist ("of course it's in your MIND, Harry, but why should that mean it's not real?"), which is why this entire pic is from the POV of Varian's mother, who (I don't think) is an original character in the series but SHOULD have gotten the attention she deserved.  
> This starts out as out-of-context.

It was incredibly difficult, she thinks as she rocks her child to sleep. It was incredibly difficult doing what she did, being who she was, with the life she now led and the people she now loved. It seems like the world nearly ends, too many times before she thinks they can start over. Again.

Long ago, Alda had thought that by choosing Quirin, she had chosen to be better than what she had been raised to expect and bear. She knew she was capable of being better. She knew Quirin was capable to being better…that he deserved to be believed and trusted, that he could be expected to be a better father than the ones they had both seen and feared.

_At least he didn’t hit him._ But was that what she wanted for her child? The least? Was what she wanted for her child what her mother had only ever expected her to be happy with?

However much she adored and revered her mother, Alda always knew she couldn’t be her. Yet now she felt like she was doing exactly that: the mother who protected her child from the father, the mother who worried extensively over the fragile trust that she leaves in her family as she sought to resurrect other areas of her life. But Quirin shouldn’t have been that father. Quirin wasn’t that kind of man-no, that kind of person. She had fallen in love with a kind gentleman, a noble leader. Quirin wasn’t-Quirin couldn’t be abusive. Quirin was not her father, or his own father. Had she made an error in her judgment? Had she foolishly gone with her instinct and accidentally subjected her child to a lifetime of unfair and cruel treatment? Was she truly incapable of seeing what had been unraveling in front of her very eyes all this time, over and over again until it finally pushed them to the brink?

And yet, the very evidence of the fears Alda wishes to dispel lays in her lap, sniffling the remaining sorrows of a frightful day away into the soft bundle of blankets and embraces she feared would not last forever. Sighing at the feat she must now accomplish, she leans over to pepper tender-loving kisses on each of her son’s cheeks, cupping them preciously between her barely larger palms to stare into eyes so similar to her own.“I love you, little one.”

“M’love you too.” The boy sleepily replies, face drained and voice hoarse from the incredible amount of crying he had accomplished. Again. “Love Daddy, too. Tell ‘im…I still love him too.”

Alda smiles despite knowing his eyes have already closed, despite knowing what she will face when she leaves the safety and sanctity of the room. “Yes, of course you do. You are a good boy.” Wiping away her own remaining tears, Alda swiftly lays the child onto his bed and tucks him in, planting one last kiss on his forehead before silently walking out and gently closing the door.

The man who she calls her husband and her child’s father immediately leaps to his feet as soon as he sees her come out, mild yet real concern glistening in his now calm and collected eyes. “How is he?” His voice is soft, careful, heavy with the knowledge of what is to come.

“You should have come earlier.” She speaks just as softly despite knowing that he wouldn’t have come anyways. “He’s fast asleep now.”

Quirin’s lips purse together, but he nods solemnly. Alda is able to make her way past him and into the kitchen before the sacred silence is cut short. The remnants of the awful day and its awful taint on her life stare back at her unabashedly. “Alda, I’m so sorry.” Quirin softy speaks.

It should imbue her with hope and relief. It should ease her concerns. Instead, the words prod insistently at her worry, stretching it thin and sparingly until she finds herself at a loss of kind sentiments. They don’t sound sincere, or sorrowful, or sound. They don’t reciprocate nor compensate for the agony she felt tear into her heart or yank at her instinctive need to protect when her son recounted the horrors of the day, interspersed with breathless whimpers and relentless apologies at how he had been made to feel about who he was and what he did. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.” Alda hopes it does not sound as bitter as she feels. Again.

“He’ll be fine.” Quirin insists wearily upon detecting her tone, as though he has the gall to be annoyed after what has just transpired. “He’s six, not sixteen.”

“Yes, he is six years old. Today.” She clarifies, ignoring his questioning and confused countenance as she storms past him, throwing the wet cloth over the still-unwashed dishes. “But one day, he will be sixteen, Quirin. One day, he will grow up and realize that the way you treat him is wrong.”

Quirin’s brow furrows, forehead creasing in thought, before his eyes dawn in realization.“Is this still about the beakers? Varian could have gotten hurt.” It is not an unreasonable start, and Alda can work with that.

“ _I_ realize that. But Varian doesn’t. Varian thinks you yelled at him because you’re disappointed in him.” The very image of her heartbroken child staring up pleadingly, expectantly, at her with his large, inquisitive eyes threatens to dismantle her composure once more.

For a split second, Quirin’s face drops, and a foreign emotion akin to guilt and worry cloud his gentle eyes. Then, as usual, he fumbles for words. “So…what? I should have done as you had done? Just take away his privileges and comfort him? Because that worked out _so_ well last time.”

Frustration fueling the fire in her gut, Alda fumes. “If you had paid _any_ attention, I also scolded him on forgetting to put on his gloves and not keeping track of the temperature. I also encouraged him that he could do better, if only he’d be more careful. And there were no accidents for three entire weeks. Yet I’m not even gone for a day before I get a letter from my scared son thinking his dad is going to disown him.”

Quirin huffed, placing his hands on his hips as he fights to keep the concern that threatens to shadow his face. “He overreacted. Just like you’re overreacting, right now.”

Pointedly ignoring the pain that the comment strikes in her heart and latching onto her weaning patience, Alda continues. “Quirin, parenting works both ways. You can’t ignore him and shut him down when he seeks your company or advice, but then berate him when he happens to make a mistake. What will that teach him? That the only way his father would ever pay attention to him is if he made a mistake?” Before Quirin can one his mouth to answer, she sears forth and seizes this opportunity with a greedy and sharpening fervor. It is rare that she can ever properly talk to her husband like this…garnering his full attention, that is. “And what will he think then? That he has to _earn_ your pride and attention? That what he does, and who he is, will never be enough?” The stress of the day suddenly bears down on her, and the unbidden rush of tears well up in her eyes. Her boy’s tear-filled eyes stare back down at her, devoid of hope and joy as he cries himself to sleep in her arms, latches onto her every small affection like it is his last drop of water.

“I don’t ignore him.” Quirin quietly defends, his thin voice heavy and still in the suffocatingly tense atmosphere.

“Then why was he alone in the basement when the beaker exploded?” She demands adamantly, taking advantage of the weaning situation.

The man takes time before answering, biting his lip and looking away before visibly steeling himself to meet her frustrated and accusatory gaze. “That beaker would have exploded even if I was there.” He speaks, voice elevating haphazardly as the uncertainty momentarily vanishes from his face. “I don’t know as much about alchemy and-and science as you do! All I know is that it’s dangerous. And you were the one who encouraged him to do it!”

Overwhelmed by indignant, righteous anger, Alda defends instantly. “Alchemy is _not_ dangerous. Volatiles chemicals in the hands of children are dangerous. Parents who don’t pay attention or supervise when their child asks for help are dangerous.” The venomous words gush out of her troubled heart before she can stop them, like embedded splinters being torn out one by one and replaced with a scalding sting of alcohol that did nothing to ease the agony. “I always encouraged him to stay within the boundaries and never do anything remotely dangerous unless I or you were present. Varian would have never touched it if he had known you would not listen to his calls for help when it inevitably exploded. You should have made sure he didn’t touch the chemicals on my top shelf, which I know he would not have been able to reach without your handy ladder. Which, by the way, was also conveniently placed to fall on him before he could so much as run back upstairs, not that you would have known, since you did not bother to show up until _after_ the 500 milliliters of mercury exploded in his face and the ladder crashed the rest of my monthly supply.” She lashes out vehemently at the silenced and stunned man. Breathing in deeply to calm herself down, she pinches the bridge of her nose and speaks with agonizing slowness, precision, as though trying to poke a thread through the needle hole rather than an arrow to the heart. “I’m not asking you to study alchemy, Quirin. I’m asking you to be a parent. Varian is six right now. He can be taught. He can still develop his passion with rules and guidance. He can still conduct experiments if you _watch_ him and follow what he’s doing. Berating him for his interest in alchemy or discouraging him from practicing will do nothing but compel him to prove you wrong.”

Quirin wrings his hands subconsciously, an awful habit she knows he only resorts to when he’s thinking deeply. “My father did the same, and I never turned out like that.” He finally answers.

_God, this day really could not get any worse._ Unable to stop a hollow bark of mirthless laughter, she bitterly replies. “Your father? The same one you told me you detested and wanted to be nothing like? The same one you still hold a grudge against for never paying attention to you?” She does not dare to continue further, silently observing Quirin’s face blanch and his eyes scrunch close in defeat. Good. He should have known not to bring up that man again. Guilt claws viciously at her chest, begging her wordlessly to stop before she starts again, and her words become gentle however unkind she feels. “You are misunderstood, Quirin, and while that’s not bad…it can hurt Varian. Varian admires you, but he will never _be_ you. And you are not your father, either. Trying to make him something else- trying to think of yourself as something you are not- is hurting both of you, too. And doing that hurts me.”

“All I did was scold him. I never meant to hurt him.” Quirin insists slowly, exhaustedly, his tired eyes searching her own despairingly. “What are you so upset about?”

Hands beginning to tremble, Alda wraps her arms around herself again, imagining them to be her son’s desperate, smaller ones as he rushed to her, bewildered and confused and hurting from what should have been a normal two days of visiting her mother. “I’m not upset that you yelled at him. I’m upset that you weren’t watching him before that. I’m upset that you didn’t tell him why you were angry and instead made him think the fault was entirely his own. I’m upset you sent him to his room without dinner after he apologized. I’m upset you didn’t so much as come over to him after it all and asked him how he was, while he sat there bawling his eyes out and thinking he was a disappointment!” Biting her lips in a vain attempt to prevent the spilling of tears from her burning eyes, Alda turns away and folds her arms around herself, fingers of each hand digging frantically into her opposing elbows as she struggles to recollect herself and her words. “Making a child feel unloved _is_ hurting them, Quirin, however much you mean to protect them. I thought you of all people would know that.”

Silence ensues, followed by footsteps. Gentle hands latch onto her shoulders, steady and sure despite the subtle sorrow that tightens their clench into her skin. “Varian will never feel unloved. He has you.” It should have been a compliment. It should have sung sweetly to her ears and soothed her innermost demons. Instead, it only beguiles her worse than she has ever felt. It was the exact same thing her father had told her mother as she lay soaked in tears and blood, trying to discourage her from running away and leaving her behind. This situation was different-but not so different as she had hoped. There was still the tremendous need for that same emotional labour-she will always be the one Varian can fall back on, so Quirin doesn’t have to bend backwards and accomplish the incredible feat of talking to his son. She will always have to be the one who picks up the pieces after another rare yet horrific incident like the one that took place today. Was that all her purpose now? Did her dear husband - who had fallen in love with her intellect, her compassion, her loyalty - expect that she would drop everything to compensate for the role of both parents, carry double her burden, just because he couldn’t be bothered to spend a modicum of his time talking to her child? Was that the man she had chosen to father her- _their_ child? Why was it _only_ her job, to worry if her child felt unloved? How many more times could she visit her mother without worrying about Varian sniffling alone in his room as Quirin wandered about oblivious to what he had done? How many more nights could she stare into the endlessly uncertain future and worry about the man that her son would become, when all he saw of the only man he knew was a stern brow and a disapproving scowl and angry, angry words meant for a tiny, tiny soul?

“He’s your son _too_ , Quirin. I shouldn’t have to be the only one who makes him feel loved.” She retorts, slipping out of his well-meaning grasp and whipping around to stare scrutinizingly at the sheepish blush that paints his face and the defeated slant of his sorrowful eyes. Perhaps she was overreacting. Perhaps this one time would remain “that one time,” one they can chuckle over pleasant family dinners years from now, when a grown Varian would recount the incident with light-hearted bemusement. Was it really fair for her to be acting as though the world was ending, after a simple misunderstanding between an overly emotional 6-year-old and his disgruntled father?

But sometimes, it does feel like the world is ending. Sometimes, perhaps staring into Varian’s sullen eyes as they followed his venerated father out of the door and into the village he knew would never accept him warranted that level of paranoia and caution. Sometimes, perhaps being endlessly alarmed by Quirin’s blank stare when she demanded where Varian had been warranted her to feel unjustly used. Perhaps…perhaps Quirin would become worse. Perhaps he would keep her occupied with Varian only so that he would not have to face what he could never accept to be his own error. “And what happens when I’m gone, Quirin? What happens when I’m gone for longer, and he has no one to turn to but you? Will you still yell at him? Will you still punish him without telling him what he did wrong? Will you still let him think that he will never be good enough for the world, good enough for you? Will you still turn away and let him believe that he can never make you proud?” The thought suddenly surges another fresh wave of hot tears to her already moist eyes, and she immediately turns away, quickly clasping her trembling hand over her mouth to prevent the upcoming sobs that broil deep from her heart and painfully into her throat. “Will you still disappoint me?”

Quirin is finally perceiving something is more deeply wrong than he originally suspected, for he reaches for her slowly, gently, as though afraid she will recoil again and he will be left with a broken hand as well as a broken heart. “No, no-I would never hurt Varian. I would never hurt you. I promise. I love you both.” He walks around her and faces her, holding her hands delicately in front of her, as though he expects that she will understand whatever unspoken agreement she was forced into the moment he turned his head away from their son and into the doubtlessly more invigorating rush of politics and village life.

It is then she comes to the realization. Quirin was not his father-and he was not her father, either. Quirin will never be that man, but he _could_ be. He proved it today, when he drove her- _their_ son to tears without knowing what he did wrong. He proved it when he interjected the very _example_ of his father-a man he _never_ mentioned since their wedding day specifically because of the very things he had shown to still possess and, however unintentionally, hurt their child. Her world is not ending, not yet, but she cannot help but feel as though it will can if she does not act soon. She cannot leave her son to the unsuspecting and unfaltering trust that her good husband-however well-meaning he may be- could try to be a good father. “I love you, Quirin, but I’m-I’m so disappointed in you.” She whispers truthfully, honestly for the second time that day into kind eyes capable of a kind soul. “I thought you were better than this. I believed that you wanted to believe you were better than that.” Quirin’s hands hover listlessly from where they had once been poised on her shoulders, and she does not dare to falter or reconsider her next words even when his own eyes droop in sorrow and his brows knit in unsurmountable guilt. “I tell you this, because I love you, and I care about you and our son. But sometimes…sometimes I think that while you may love Varian and care about whether or not his arms get severed, you don’t care _for_ him. At least, not when he is out from the basement.” The realisation sparks a newfound fear where her respect for him used to lie, compelling and powerful and leeching off of every hope that will struggle to properly wash it away.

“That’s not true.” Quirin quickly speaks, but it is not sure nor defensive, weeping its way into the volatile yet deafening silence.

“Isn’t it?” Alda answers just as quickly, defensively, unable to quell the plethora of pain that has plagued her from the moment her son began walking and her husband became this other person. “You don’t care that he looks up to you, but then wonder why he is not like you. You don’t care that he worries about what you think of him, but then guilt him into never considering how much you worry about him. You don’t care that everything you say or act like around him is subject to his scrutiny and curiosity, but then wonder why I’m overreacting when I receive a letter from a boy worried to death that you’ll kick him out when I’m not around because he disappoints you? Do you think it will make any difference to him, if I’m the one who has to apologize for your errors? Don’t you think that’s unfair for me, when he is supposed to be raised by both of us?”

Quirin’s lips tighten from where they tremble in place, and he looks down at where his hands are tightly clasped over each other, remorse and realization evident in his soft eyes. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I never thought it would go this far.”

“I know you didn’t, Quirin.” She answers honestly. “I know you didn’t, and I don’t mean to blame you. Because if you had any idea of everything I’ve just told you, you would have rushed up there and hugged your son yourself. You would have apologized for not listening to his explanation, you would have filled his belly with ham sandwiches, and you would have told him a thousand times that you loved him despite how angry you were at his mistakes. You could have been the one who held him as he cried himself to sleep. You could have been the one who picked out the tiny pieces of glass from his tiny hand, which he would have gotten in his _eyes_ with the way he was rubbing them free of tears. He deserved at least that much, Quirin. You deserve to have at least that much expected of you.” Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps, despite loving him so much, Alda did not want to cling to the hope that Quirin could, at this point, deserve any portion of the possibly idealistic vision she had foolishly conjured of Varian having a decent childhood and decent connections with both of his parents.

Quirin reels back, mouth agape in shock. It opens and closes, eyes wide with disbelief before he can finally formulate words. “I didn’t know. Alda, I swear, I didn’t know-“

“Of course you didn’t. You just saw that his limbs were attached and assumed he was fine.”

She buries her face in her hands, feeling the heaviness settle deep into her heart. This was not fair. Quirin was the father. Quirin had helped her bring this child into the world. She shouldn’t have to tell him how care about his own child. She shouldn’t have to tell him that who he was and what he did was _inadequate_. She wasn’t a mother to _two_ children. “I love you, Quirin, but I don’t trust you to care for Varian unless you _talk_ to him and prove to me that you are not the father you never trusted.” She lifts her head and folds her hands to stare at the excruciating humility, the unrelenting guilt that now floods the man’s moist eyes and drains his face of all color. Alda grabs the reins of her conscience before her own guilt does, steeling herself with resolve despite how her voice wavers with every crippling word that she knows she must speak for their sake. For their family’s sake. “I don’t trust you unless you prove to me that you can stay in Varian’s room and look at him attentively while he speaks for no less than _five minutes_ before you bolt out the door for another village matter. I can’t trust you unless you at least try to be the father that I know you are capable of being.”

Watching Quirin's knowing eyes fill with tears, the knowing hands drop to his sides, the knowing lips downturned with helpless despair, Alda decides that it has been enough for today. Turning her head towards the door, she decides she will sleep with Varian for the night. Again.

The man she calls a husband and her child’s father grabs her arm before she retreats into the safety and familiarity that is her son’s room, adorned with lovingly drawn mother’s day cards that were carefully dotted with kisses and father’s day cards that were merely glanced at, hand-made gifts strewn mid-attempt when another disappointing day crawled into the way, hastily scribbled notes about new perfumes and blood thinners and animal traps and hot showers that she knew her son will one day make possible despite how much he doubted himself. “I love you.” Quirin whispers belatedly to both the worried wife and the weeping boy that he loves dearly, seeking to mend together the rift he had torn in what seemed to be the carefully weaved fabric that was their every peaceful day without waiting for another bout of tears or another round of yelling or another night alone thinking about what they could have done differently. He searches her eyes for reassurance, reciprocance, repentance even, but Alda knows that it is not she he must seek it from, nor will it ever be she he will receive it from.

Alda kisses his hand once, twice. “I love you, but I am so disappointed in you.” She whispers with all of the sincerity and trust she has left, and makes it to Varian’s room before the last of her tears drip down her pale cheeks and into her withered soul, ready to return to another night of keeping their world, her world, her child’s world safely together if for but one more night.

Needless to say, Alda never visited her mother again. And yet, she was not able to make it to Varian’s room the next time their world nearly ended. Again.

**Author's Note:**

> *lets out a deep breath, narrating voice* Little did the young lady know, in less than ten years' time, her life partner would f*ck up again, and so would her son, spiraling into a deep and vengeful chasm of hatred she would have never been proud of...
> 
> Someone save Varian’s family before I ruin each and every one of them. Please.
> 
> Should I write Varian's mother more? I don't want to do an injustice to the other fantastic fics there are about her. I just-I conjured up an image of what she was like, because the series doesn't really show couple disagreements outside of Rapunzel and Eugene. Realistically, I know Quirin isn't perfect and don't really think he fared best in any relationship given the kind of person he is... I'm not saying people like him are bad at relationships, or anything, but there's love, and then there's reality. And for some people, I understand it's hard to distinguish even when it unintentionally hurts them. I feel like Quirin would struggle with being a good husband as well as a good father despite loving both his wife and son. I honestly don't think he meant for Varian's mother to feel that way.
> 
> The funny thing is that I originally thought about doing this for Arianna fighting Frederic over his treatment of Rapunzel, but it became difficult given that 1) Rapunzel is an adult who ends up standing up to her father and getting her freedom anyway and 2) Arianna and Frederic were alone together for the entirety of the 18 years+ that Rapunzel was gone, and Arianna is rarely ever shown actively confronting Frederic or being upset with him over how he treats Rapunzel because she has shared his pain of losing her. So...well-played, Disney. There will be an Arianna-Frederic confrontation coming up in ANOTHER little work, somewhere out in the blue... you know who I mean.


End file.
